Three years ago when the sky turned orange over New York due to the Canadian wildfires I tried to leave work early. Even though I sat next to the air purifier in my office, drawing breath wasn’t good. I felt the ash in my lungs. I didn’t end up needing to use sick time to leave early because the library closed. Today the sky is Gibson’s, a TV tuned to a dead channel. Inside my library the fire alarm lights are strobing and as such the ac has shut off so all I smell is ash. As Jello Biafra illustrated in “Moon Over Marin,” tragedies compile until they become part of life. We avoid stepping on the bones of fish killed in oil spills like it’s second nature, because we’ve done it so many times before. Once the spectacle has gone can we even see the disasters anymore.